SCREAM

      The clock read 3 am. I was due back at the ABC studio at 7:30 am and I was nowhere near ready for sleep. Cocaine did that. It also allowed one to drink for hours on end without passing out. So, the previous eight hours had been my favorite mixture of lines of blow, followed by shots of whiskey chased by beer. 

       It had been a year since ALL MY CHILDREN had cast me on the show, as Greg, and my storyline was hugely successful. The young couple known as Jenny and Greg became the most popular daytime romance in the country, following on the heels of another young couple, Luke and Laura, of GENERAL HOSPITAL. I was ridiculously unprepared for the intensity of the fame. Magazine covers, talk shows, interviews, photoshoots, Life magazine, the cover of TV guide, personal appearances at malls sometimes garnering thousands of screaming fans, limousines, first-class, autographs, baseball hats, sunglasses, ever-larger weekly bags of fan mail. The show always rated in the top three of daytime programming, frequently pushing past twenty million in daily viewership. It all felt tremendously exciting, at first. I loved the work and I loved the camaraderie at the studio. 

       A few months into the show, some of the crew invited me to take part in their weekly Friday night jam sessions. It was mostly beer and shots and Hendrix era covers. My musicianship consisted of beating a conga drum and I did so with enthusiasm as the night and the drinking progressed. At one of the early jam sessions, someone offered me a line of coke. The effect was immediate. Where the Budweiser and Wild Turkey mellowed me out, the coke jacked me up again, intensifying the buzz. Any nagging insecurity I felt was replaced with bravado. I had no clue that I had just begun a long fifteen-year descent into hell. 

       Month after month, my fame as Greg grew. It became impossible to even walk down the streets of Manhattan without being recognized. People would scream, “Greg! Greg! Greg!”, and often I would be chased by mini mobs of fans. Stores and restaurants were places of refuge where I’d hide in the back until the rush was over. It became routine for me to wear my recognition reduction gear, baseball caps and sunglasses. Even that became less and less effective as time steamrolled forward. Being famous was fun, there was a certain thrill that came with it. I began to feel special, awash with entitlement, acclimating to an elevated status. It was almost like I was untouchable, and was treated accordingly. Once punctual, if not early to work, I often began to show up late. Down on the studio floor during tech rehearsal, more often than not I’d be goofing off instead of focusing on the work. At restaurants, I’d swoop in without reservations, expecting the best table, not to mention being comped, after a table-side visit from the head chef. I gradually became less polite and gracious to the people around me. But underneath this growing sense of importance, lurked a discordant beast. The circumstances of my past haunted me. The abandonment, the molestation, Mother’s murder, all of it, had drilled into me that I was never truly worthy of being valued. The newfound outward praise conflicted with my inner experience. It just didn’t fit. The unacknowledged and unarticulated truth was that I felt like a fraud. My life was a lie. The two things that kept my demons at bay, were alcohol and cocaine.

       It didn’t take long to seek out and make my own connection with a purveyor of coke. It was everywhere. There were even people at work selling it. In the early stages, I’d pick up a small amount, usually a gram, the transaction often taking place in the men’s room. I’d hang out with friends after work drinking and snorting the night away. At first, things seemed completely under control. It was just casual fun. But little by little, my desire became stronger, and the craving for coke escalated from Friday nights to whole weekends of binging. I silently vowed that weeknights were off-limits for indulging, especially if I had to work the next day. Then I began to rationalize that if I stopped partying early enough, weeknights were acceptable party zones. I’d peruse my dialogue for the next day and if it wasn’t a lot, that gave me further permission to violate my promise not to use. Within a year, I was fully addicted, and careening off the rails. I was showing up to work with massive hangovers, burning through the fog in my brain, pulling it together just in time to shoot the show.  

       As I looked at my clock that night, I had a moment of desperate clarity. Having snorted all my coke and finished off the booze, I was alone and wide awake. In three hours, a heavy day of work loomed.  Though I knew my dialogue well enough, I was shaking and beginning to panic. What if I forgot my lines? What if everyone knew? What if I got fired? Sleep wasn’t coming and I would show up at the studio looking a wreck. My heart was racing, pulsing way faster than normal, and rivulets of sweat began pouring down my face. Pacing like a caged animal, feeling trapped and frightened, panic gripped me tighter and tighter. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared, crawling out of my skin. Bursting with fear, I wanted to scream. I closed the window blinds and double-checked the door locks, as paranoia crept in. 

       I needed help. But there was no one to call. No one. And then, I thought of my dad. Could I reach out to him, this one time? He’d find out I was drinking and drugging, failing desperately and destroying my life. I didn’t know. But I was beyond desperate. I had to try.

        It was midnight in Oregon. He might not answer the phone. Dialing his number, I tried to calm myself, but I couldn’t stop shaking. His phone rang several times and I was about to hang up when I heard a click, and then, 

       “Hello?” his voice deep and masculine. 

       “Dad! It’s me.” I began to cry. I hadn’t cried in years. “ I’m in trouble, Dad.  I need help. I’m drinking and using cocaine all the time and I can’t stop. I can’t stop, Dad. Help me, please help me, please Dad, I’m in trouble!” These cries poured out of me, pleading and weeping and choking. When I was finally spent, he said, 

       “It’s okay, son, I’ll be there. I’ll be on the first flight out of Portland tomorrow morning. You hang in there, and I’ll see you soon.”

       It was like magic. Dad was coming. It was going to be okay. He was coming to help me and we would put it all together again. 

       “Call me as soon as you land at JFK. I’ll be at the studio. Thank you, Dad. Thank you.”

       I went to work and did my job. My spirits were hopeful. If Dad caught the first plane out, he should be landing at JFK around One o’clock. Dress rehearsal would just be beginning, so I couldn’t be at my phone when he called, but I had asked him to come straight to the studio. At two o’clock, we took our first five-minute break. I raced up to my dressing room, but there was no message. At three o’clock, we took our second five, and I raced up again, but there was no message. At four o’clock there was no message. At five o’clock, I was finished for the day and went down to the lobby to look for him. There was still no Dad and no message. Was his flight delayed? Worse yet, was there a crash? 

       In my dressing room, I picked up the phone and dialed Dad’s number. After a couple of rings, I heard a click, and then his voice.

       “Hello?”

       “Dad. What happened? I thought you were coming to New York.”

       “Well, I figured once you slept it off, you’d feel better,” he said.

       I closed my eyes for a moment, before saying, “Oh, sure. No, I do. I feel better.”

       After we hung up, I zipped up my backpack and left the studio. There was the usual gaggle of fans waiting outside, and I signed autographs and thanked them for watching the show. Then I hailed a cab and headed downtown to my dealer.